


You Can Run

by Lilia



Series: You Can Run [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Peter Hale, Alpha Theo Raeken, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Asshole police officers, Forced Marriage, M/M, Manipulative Peter Hale, Marijuana, Marriage Made in Stockholm, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Omega Corey Bryant, Omega Hayden Romero, Omega Stiles Stilinski, Omega Verse, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Recreational Drug Use, Restraints
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2016-03-16
Packaged: 2018-05-25 23:13:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6213961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilia/pseuds/Lilia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fifteen months ago, a judge declared Stiles an "incorrigible omega" and gave him a choice between prison and getting mated to an Alpha.<br/>Stiles chose prison.<br/>His dad chose mating.  So Stiles was mated to Peter Hale and moved to Los Angeles.<br/>Where Stiles ran away. He ran away six times.<br/>And Peter is getting sick of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are always hugely appreciated. This is finished. As usual, I am hoping to post a chapter a day until the end. 
> 
> Apology to Skateboarders: an early draft of this had ONE sentence about Stiles hiding out with a skate gang, which somehow evolved into an ENTIRE SCENE set in an L.A. skatepark. The problem is that me and skateboarding, we have a rather distant relationship. Meaning I have heard of it as, like, this thing cool kids do. Also I watched this fairly mesmerizing [YouTube](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3K_2tO0_TIg) compilation of people doing 360 flips.  
> Bottom line: I am totally faking it, and if I get stuff wrong, I am totally open to correcting it. 
> 
> I am also posting this on tumblr with pictures, including shots of our cast, blue dream bud, L.A. skateparks, cheesy Rasta caps, and a model for Stiles' green fauxhawk (not Stiles obviously, but that kid from the boy band). Here's the link: [You Can Run: Chapter 1](http://liliaford.tumblr.com/post/140836405036/you-can-run-chapter-1) Hope you enjoy. 
> 
> I officially give permission to list this on Goodreads or anywhere else. For my thoughts on that controversy, here's my [blog post](http://liliaford.tumblr.com/post/116595379216/love-lost/)
> 
> Continuing the multi-media adventure, I have also created a Peter Hale fanmix on 8-tracks:  
> [Me and The Devil: Peter Hale](http://8tracks.com/liliaford/me-and-the-devil-peter-hale) including music from TV and the Radio, Spoon, Pulp, and The Brian Jonestown Massacre.

So maybe the bright green fauxhawk wasn’t Stiles’ best idea.

When he’d walked into that dodgy salon on Sunset and told them to go for it, it had seemed like the most brilliant idea he’d had in months—well, _days_.

Problem was, it was hideous.

“Hey Bieber!” Hayden, one of the other omegas in the skate pack, blew him a kiss as she sped by.

And then there was that problem. He’d totally forgotten that the great omega heartthrob, Justin Bieber, had sported a similar do, though not in green—at least he didn’t think so?

Stiles still maintained he rocked the dark purple guyliner and black lipstick, though he could have done without the lamo leggings underneath his board shorts—basically the current SoCal skate punk uniform.

Still, as disguises went it had definitely worked. Three weeks and counting. He’d never lasted this long. So what if Stiles wasn’t exactly Tony Hawk on a skateboard. Like, he could ride on the L.A. streets without killing himself, and he could do an Ollie. That made him as good as the average nine-year-old at the Culver City skatepark they usually frequented.

But the dude-meets-goth ensemble had been enough to make him virtually invisible to any police or evil minions out looking for him. The other members of Donovan’s pack knew better, obviously, but thanks to the money he’d filched from Peter (and Boyd too, which he still felt slightly guilty about even though Peter would totally pay him back) they were content to let the sad little runaway omega camp out with them.

Hayden did her stupidly high kickflip and skidded to a stop next to him. She spent half a minute rubbing her face against his chest. It had taken Stiles a few days to get used to how much the omegas in the pack liked to scent. The last time he’d had this much omega time was probably ninth grade, and he’d forgotten how great it could feel to scent constantly throughout the day—more effective than Valium, and no need to raid Lydia’s mom’s medicine cabinet to get it.

Omega business done, Hayden flashed him her million-dollar smile. “Got you a present!” She pulled out one of those touristy Rasta caps bearing the colors of the Jamaican flag and a big marijuana leaf on top. “It’s for your hair!”

“Oh, lovely! Now I can look like an even bigger idiot.”

“No, it will look cute—put it on.”

Stiles was pretty firm on his membership in the Non-Hat-Wearing segment of the male population, but then again, he’d probably felt the same about guyliner and douchey leggings—not to mention green fauxhawks.

What the hell. He pulled on the cap, and honestly it was worth it to see Hayden clap and jump up and down. “Hit me?” she said, batting her eyelashes at him.

Stiles laughed at an omega trick he used to pull everyday with Scott, but never really imagined would be pulled on him. “Oh, I see, the hat was a _bribe_.”

“Maybe a little one.”

He fished a joint from his pocket and gave it to her—not mentioning that it was his last one. Stiles had a creeping suspicion that he was one of the only people on the planet who had ever given Hayden pot or anything else without demanding something in return. And he’d much rather give his last joint to Hayden than to any of the betas in the pack, all of whom labored under the impression that omegas were overjoyed to hand over their money and drugs to ungrateful douchebags.

She fired the joint and leaned against the wall next to him, taking a deep drag. She took another, holding the smoke in, and held out the joint to him.  

Stiles shook his head. “No, dude, not if I gotta take that fucking hill on La Cienega—in the dark? Pretty sure I’m gonna break my neck as it is.”

Hayden let the smoke out, coughing slightly. “You’re not _that_ bad. At least it’s not the California incline.”

A 1300-foot stretch boasting a neckbreaking angle and emptying directly into Highway 1?—thanks but no thanks.

“Yo, Corey,” she called out. “Come share.”

Corey, the pack’s other omega, skated over. “Like the hat,” he laughed, earning the mandatory sarcastic smirk from Stiles. Corey took a drag from the joint. “Man, Stiles, how’d you score such good stuff?”

“I know!” Hayden gushed.

Stiles tried for a bland shrug. “Thanks, man.”

In retrospect, it probably hadn’t been that smart of him to score such high-grade bud—three ounces of Blue Dream. He’d just wanted something unambiguously awesome to offer Donovan in return for letting Stiles roll with his pack. Also, since he’d started living with Peter, he’d turned into an entitled snob about “cannabis,” and he truly couldn’t stomach the garbage schwag he and Scott used to smoke.

He’d already endured some ribbing about how he was slumming it with the pack, which was totally unfair since he’d not grown up with money and he knew for a fact that Tracy’s parents were both shrinks in Beverly Hills. Still, it was better for everyone if no one got a sniff about his real situation—better and safer.

“Look at Donovan’s three little omegas sharing a joint at the skate park. You guys are adorable.”

Stiles looked up to see his exact picture of an Alpha douche rolling up: tank top, showing off carved biceps along with a generous amount of pec, skinny jeans, and a backwards Mets cap, which seriously made Stiles want to puke. Couldn’t there be, like, a law against SoCal douchenozzles pretending to support the only cool team in America?

Hayden and Corey immediately lowered their gazes. Stiles could feel Hayden freezing next to him, something he’d noticed before. The omega was absolutely terrified of Alphas—all Alphas. There was obviously a bad story there, but the unspoken rule of the pack was no personal questions and Stiles had too many secrets of his own to risk violating it.

However, Stiles was not about to lower his gaze for any Alpha, especially a complete buttmuncher, which meant he noticed how the Alpha’s nostrils flared as he caught the scent of Hayden’s fear—along with his satisfied smirk.

Before Stiles could react, Corey edged forward, quietly putting himself between the Alpha and the other omegas. “Hey Theo,” he said shyly, with a small lick of his lips. “I hadn’t heard you got back from Hawaii.”

WTF? Was he coming on to this douche?

“Just this morning, babe,” the Alpha, _Theo_ , answered. “Miss me?”

Corey glanced nervously towards Donovan at the other end of the park, but their fearless leader was paying no attention. “Yeah, Theo,” he said breathlessly, “Did you miss me?”

“Course I did, babe.”

Shit. Stiles would have thought it impossible to be smarmier than Peter, but somehow this Alpha was managing. Stiles let out an audible snort of disgust, and suddenly he had Theo’s attention.

“Who’s your cute friend, babe?” Theo asked, running his eyes over Stiles admiringly like a complete fucking sleazebag.

“This is Stiles,” Corey answered before Stiles could tell him to keep his mouth shut.

“Hello, Stiles.” Theo raised a hand to fucking touch his cheek, and Stiles practically lurched back.

“Yo dude, what the fuck?” he snapped.

Theo grinned like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. “Ooo, feisty. I like it.”

Before Stiles could lose his shit, the Alpha put a finger under Corey’s chin and forced him to lift his gaze. “See you tonight, babe.” It wasn’t a question. Corey bit his lip but nodded. “Good boy,” Theo said and kissed him on the mouth before skating away. And just to prove what a douchey show-off he was, he skated down one of the ramps into a fucking quadruple kickflip.

Corey smiled apologetically at both of them and then skated off himself towards the half-pipe.

“Ugh, what a fucking creep,” Stiles burst out. “I thought Donovan’s whole thing was no Alphas. Doesn’t it bother him that Corey is getting boned by that douchebag?”

Hayden unfroze, though she still looked panicked. “Theo’s uncle owns the garage,” she said after a minute.

“What the fuck?”

“Look, it’s all consensual. No one will make you do anything you don’t want,” she said, sounding shrill. “Uh, we should be going home soon. Thanks again for the joint.” She followed Corey towards the half-pipe.

Fuck the hill on La Cienega: Stiles should have taken a hit. Being high would probably make him break his neck, but at least then he wouldn’t give a shit. The encounter with that Alpha-douche, Theo, was only the most recent sign that the pack he’d thought would be a safe haven had a dark underside.

He’d first heard rumors about the group on an underground omega board he only accessed from the library to keep it off Peter’s radar. The leader, a dude named Donovan, liked to boast that he ran the _only egalitarian skate pack_ in SoCal, where omegas were given as much of a voice as everyone else.

And it was definitely true that Donovan fancied himself a _bone fide_ hero of the revolution—Mr. Speak-Truth-to-Power himself. Too bad his top lieutenants, Tracy and Josh, were almost definitely sociopaths and had no problem using violence to enforce party doctrine on the rest. After three weeks with the pack, Stiles had concluded that Donovan was an insufferable blowhard, and pretty much everyone else, excepting his two fellow omegas, was a total asswipe.  

But honestly Stiles could give a shit about that. Donovan’s pack had one overwhelming point in its favor: the dude fucking hated Alphas and refused to let anyone in the pack associate with them.

For better or worse, the reality of Stiles’ life was that betas were not a threat to him, so in the end nothing they did really mattered; Alphas, on the other hand, were always dangerous to omegas, no matter how decent they appeared.  

Putting up with Donovan seemed like a reasonable price to pay for no Alphas. But he had a sinking feeling that Donovan’s radical politics did not prevent him from whoring out his omegas in return for a place to stay.

It was horrible and a sign of how fucked up the world was, but Stiles had more immediate, selfish concerns. He was down to $20, out of the $1500 he’d stolen from Peter. If his suspicions about Donovan were true, when his money ran out, he’d be expected to pay the way omegas usually were--on his back.

Which seriously could not happen—and not just because Stiles would rather jump off the Bay Bridge than let an Alpha like Theo touch him. There were some things that did not bear thinking of, namely what Peter would do if another Alpha _interfered_ with his omega.

No. Just the idea was raising his anxiety to levels he wouldn’t be able to manage. It wasn’t helping his cool that it was only chance—running into doucheboy Theo--that he was aware of the danger at all. He could easily have found himself up shit’s creek—at the mercy of an Alpha with no way to stop things.

Fuck, he really wished he’d taken a hit off Hayden’s joint. He needed to chill out, _now_. Except that he needed a clear head if he was going to think his way through this. Fuck!

When he looked out, he realized that the sun was setting and the rest of the pack was moving en masse towards the exit at the opposite end of the park. Of course, Hayden was the only one who noticed him and circled back. “Hey, Stiles, we’re heading out.”

“Wow, and now it’s dark. And the middle of L.A. rush hour. I am so going to die,” he said, sorta mostly joking.

“I’ll stay with you; you’ll be fine.”

It made him ache that she was so nice to him—that life hadn’t knocked it out of her yet. Corey too.

Donovan and his betas really were just a bunch of punk-ass delinquents—and given that Stiles had six arrests on his record and no high school diploma, he would know. But Corey and Hayden watched out for each other--and for Stiles since he’d shown up three weeks ago.

He would figure this out. He had no choice. One thing he knew: hell would freeze over before he went crawling back to Peter. It was more than that he refused—he just couldn’t do it. And right there was the real danger, the one that had fucked up his life beyond repair, until he was a seventeen-year-old omega already labeled an “incorrigible” and facing a choice between incarceration or mating to an Alpha twice his age.

He’d have chosen prison that day—if it had been up to him and not his dad. He was that stubborn. And he was old enough now to be terrified by that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've done up an "illustrated" version of this on tumblr with pictures of Peter, Boyd, Stiles, the Sheriff and Peter's home office. [You Can Run: Chapter 2](http://liliaford.tumblr.com/post/140924491646/you-can-run-chapter-2/)  
> 

It was Boyd’s knock. Finally. Peter signed the last of the documents Isaac had sent up and drawled “yes,” the casualness certainly not fooling his second in command.

“We got a hit, boss,” Boyd said.

“So I gathered. And?”

“He’s with a gang of skateboarders.”

Peter’s hackles went up at the vague answer. “And?” he said more pointedly.

Boyd swallowed and looked down at his notepad. “They run out of an abandoned garage in Venice Beach. The pack is mostly betas but there are a few omegas running with them.”

“No Alphas?”

“Yeah—about that. It looks like the garage is owned by an Alpha.”

He could scent Boyd’s fear, which could only mean one thing. “Am I to assume that the pack leader is using his omegas as currency in lieu of paying rent.”

There was no answer. The Montblanc pen in Peter’s hand suddenly snapped, exploding ink all over his hand and his newly signed contracts.

“Fuck, boss…” Boyd motioned to help.

“Don’t,” he growled. “Send Isaac up. I’ll need these documents redone.” He went into the powder room adjoining his office, where he focused on scrubbing the ink off his hands, trying to get his rage under control. He almost lost it when he saw that he’d gotten ink on his cuff, ruining his custom-tailored shirt.

He forced himself to take a deep breath: the shirt was not his mate’s fault. Stiles had plenty to answer for but not that. It was enough to calm him to the point that he could begin to formulate a plan for dealing with his wayward omega. Exiting the powder room, he said with perfect calm, “Someone’s watching them?”

“Course.”

“Where are they right now?”

Boyd touched his earpiece. “Skatepark in Culver City.”

Peter picked up his phone. “Erica, yes. There’s a garage in Venice. Boyd will text you the address. Yes, I think we need to leave them a little gift—for when the police visit tonight…. That’s right. Thank you, my dear.”

He hung up. “Don’t leave anything to chance. Call in a favor with the D.A. I want every beta in that pack charged. Conspiracy to traffic narcotics. And make sure the leader is charged with prostitution as well as gross endangerment of an omega.”

“And Stiles?”

“He can get picked up with the other omegas. I’m sure he’ll find it quite educational. Keep me informed.”

“Whatever you say, boss.”

Peter caught the slight note of exasperation in his second’s tone, which for Boyd was roughly the equivalent of jumping up and down in a frothing rage. No doubt he’d have preferred to leave Stiles rotting in the municipal omega lockup.

His three betas all detested his mate--no surprise there. Stiles had been infuriating teachers, police officers and therapists for the better part of five years. And since Peter had no intention of subjecting himself to his mate’s extraordinary gift for sarcasm, he’d delegated that role to his betas.

It should have been irritating, but in fact most days he derived an unholy amount of amusement from pretending to ignore the hostility between them all. The first time the three had come to complain about Stiles, he’d doubled their salaries and _advised_ them not to come to him again. Erica’s expression in particular--he’d characterize it as _barely concealed murderous rage_ \--was especially gratifying. Good times.

Peter looked impatiently at the clock, though he knew it would be hours before anything could be expected to happen. It was probably for the best that he had some time to get himself fully under control: the past fifteen months had taught him that nothing short of his best, most focused efforts were adequate for bringing his omega to heel.

That he should care so much was a mystery, but it had been like this from the very start. He recalled the first time he’d set eyes on the boy. It was at the sheriff’s home, two days after the court had handed down a judgment declaring the seventeen-year-old an _incorrigible omega_ and giving him the option of incarceration in the omega ward at Eichen House or mating to an Alpha.

Protocol dictated that Sheriff Stilinski approach the Hales as the dominant Alpha family in Beacon Hills, although since the fire none of them actually lived there any more.

No one thought for a moment that a Hale would actually agree to claim the omega, but it was a sensitive enough situation—involving the son of a prominent public official—to warrant someone making the trip to Beacon Hills in order to uphold the family’s influence.

And as fate would have it, with Laura in D.C., and Derek and Cora in New York, Peter, in Los Angeles, was closest.

There were times he really did think it must be fate. How else to explain it? Before that day, he would have dismissed the very idea of he, Peter Hale, claiming an omega. Despite the claims of countless teen romances, modern Alphas were generally not eager to claim an omega, who was legally dependent, who’d expect to be pampered and supported, who could never be divorced? No, thank you. Not to mention that the Hale family’s wealth made them the constant target of fortune hunters.

He’d intended to meet with Sheriff Stilinski at the station, a simple courtesy call, take care of a few small matters in Beacon Hills, and fly back the same day without even bothering to lay eyes on Stiles himself.

But then on the flight north, he’d had a free moment to glance at the dossier he’d had prepared on the boy. The young man in the photograph sported an unflattering haircut and shuddersome fashion sense, but he was attractive enough, Peter supposed. Nothing repellent but nothing remarkable either.

The file itself, however, was another story. Peter was extremely good at reading between the lines in personal files and he’d quickly found himself engrossed.

The problems had all started when Stiles presented at age fourteen. Before then he’d been an excellent student—his aptitude scores were uniformly in the high nineties—though he’d had a… _mediocre_ discipline record, with frequent detentions and visits to the principal. All of that was accounted for by the ADHD diagnosis.

Certainly, there was nothing there that predicted what would come: half a dozen arrests for vandalism, truancy, failure to obey an Alpha in authority. Far more disturbing to Peter was the complete collapse of the omega’s grades, which ultimately led to his getting expelled from his mixed-dynamic high school.

Peter found the key of sorts in one of the therapist’s reports. From the moment Stiles had presented, behavior that had formerly gotten him detentions now made him the recipient of “best-practice” interventions designed to “protect the omega from overwhelming stimuli” and help him “manage intense and confusing emotions.” These included being shunted into the most remedial academic track, excluded from all sports (a boy with ADHD?), and any time he tried to protest, subjected to sedatives and therapeutic restraints.

Well, there was nothing like the special stupidity of “the expert.” Peter was impressed in spite of himself at the ingenuity and vindictiveness of Stiles’ retaliations. The omega might be protesting the oppression of his dynamic, but he was also a spiteful brat.

Evidently, as long as it was fairly minor stuff, Sheriff Stilinski had been able to finesse the charges, apparently with the help of one of Stiles’ childhood friends, Scott McCall, one of the rare Alphas born to two beta parents. After Stiles’ third arrest, young McCall somehow convinced the judge, some idiot beta, that _he_ would assume authority over his omega friend.

Peter rolled his eyes at the very idea. An Alpha judge would have seen the truth in a second—that the omega completely dominated the Alpha. And in fact their most recent arrest proved how dangerous Stiles could be as he somehow entangled his friend in a bizarre scheme that involved stealing a police van and using it to _kidnap_ a classmate, an Alpha named Jackson Whittemore.

No one was hurt, and the Sheriff might have passed it off as a prank but for the fact that the victim was the son of a powerful Beacon Hills attorney, who’d insisted on pressing charges.

In the normal course of things, young McCall would have been tried as an Alpha, and likely faced an aggravated felony charge, due (ironically enough) to the involvement of an omega. Before the indictment was actually handed down, however, Stiles somehow got in to see the judge, where he had copped to the entire offense. Which meant that now instead of prison for McCall, Stiles was declared an incorrigible, and offered a choice: incarceration in the omega ward at Eichen House or being mated to an Alpha.

At Eichen House he’d have been kept drugged and restrained, isolated from “agitating” materials such as television or the internet, subject to shock treatment….

It was outrageous of course, but hardly Peter’s problem. But for reasons he couldn’t fathom, the thought of Stiles in Eichen House was intensely disagreeable—almost intolerable.

Peter had no doubt whatsoever that a stay in Eichen House would have destroyed the omega. Which made it all the more interesting that Stiles himself had argued for just that—argued vociferously, and with extensive reference to legal precedent.

The Alpha judge had been less than amused, and thankfully deferred to Stiles’ father, who had chosen mating as the lesser of two evils.

It all made for a very fascinating read—as much for what was left out as what was included. Peter decided that staying one night in Beacon Hills wouldn’t wreak _that much_ havoc on his schedule. It would be preferable—more courteous—to speak with Stilinski at his home, this evening. And honestly, was he really going to fly 700 miles north and _not_ meet the omega who had caused this level of mayhem?  

Even as he’d entered the Stilinskis’ modest middle-class home, the most Peter would admit to was a mild curiosity. He’d shaken hands with the sheriff and then been led into the living room, where Stiles was sitting slumped over a laptop, with three coffee cups and a dozen empty candy wrappers scattered around him.

Peter’s first thought was that the photograph had not done the boy justice. The details were correct, but no photograph could capture the omega’s intensity: Stiles practically smoldered with defiance and intelligence.

Stiles, for his part, took one look at Peter and snapped at his Dad, “No fucking way—this is a joke, right?”

_That defiant little shit._

Peter’s Alpha instincts roared to life. Suddenly every ounce of his mental powers was focused on the challenge of how best to master the omega.

But even in the grip of his most primal instincts, Peter was always calculating. So instead of grabbing the omega and throwing him over the desk like he wanted to, he flashed his eyes and smiled smugly. “You must be Stiles.”

The omega’s reaction was _instantaneous_. Scents began pouring off of him: outrage, fear and, unmistakably, _lust_.

It was irresistible. Stiles, despite his obvious attraction, was determined not to mate Peter, so Peter became just as determined to claim him.

John Stilinski clearly had no idea what to make of Peter’s presence there, but etiquette dictated that he treat him as a suitor for his son’s hand. He warily invited Peter into his private study and once they were seated said, “I, ah, I assume you understand about Stiles’ situation.”

“Yes, I had my people prepare a dossier.”

“Dossier?”

“School reports, psych-ed and therapist evaluations, and of course his arrest records. It was only materials that could be pulled together quickly, you understand, but it gave me the general picture. I have no questions. Do you have any for me?”

He had to hand it to the man—John Stilinski recovered quickly and proceeded to negotiate all sorts of protections as if his son were a royal omega heiress instead of a penniless incorrigible.

As it happened, the sheriff’s demands were all reasonable, things Peter would have done anyway: He’d not keep Stiles drugged; Stiles would be allowed to work outside the home or attend college if he wished (or could get in); he’d never be impregnated without his consent; he’d be allowed regular visits with friends and family members.  

Peter did find it curious that the sheriff insisted on no drugs but made no mention of the other disciplinary methods permitted under the Omega Protection Acts, such as corporal punishment or therapeutic restraint. It gave Peter no advantage to ask about it so he didn’t, but it did make him wonder what exactly the father knew about his son that he wasn’t saying.

Thanks to his Alpha hearing, Peter easily picked up Stiles’ heartbeat as he listened outside the door. About ten minutes into the meeting, the omega stormed in and handed his father a crumpled piece of paper covered in a barely legible scrawl. The sheriff looked almost constipated. “I’ll take these under advisement, but I think it’s time to start dinner, son. I’m pretty sure that Alpha Hale will know if you’re eavesdropping.”

A short conversation conducted entirely through glares and pointed looks ensued before Stiles angrily retreated. The sheriff started to say something only to be interrupted by the sounds of pots and pans smashing together in the kitchen—just in case there was any doubt about the omega’s displeasure.

Stilinksi looked like he wanted to say something, but Peter just smiled blandly. “I take it Stiles has some conditions of his own.”  

Indeed he did. Poor John Stilinski’s expression as he read them off was priceless: under no circumstances would Stiles ever be forced to listen to light jazz or the music of Maroon Five. He would have “guaranteed bi-weekly access” to curly fries. He’d never (highlighted _and_ underlined) be required to eat sea urchin.

And so on for another fifteen ludicrous items, including four related to his God-given right to wear unfashionable, unflattering, discount-store clothing.

It was clear the boy was trying to annoy Peter into leaving, though Peter also intuited that if challenged, Stiles would argue to the death that he was _absolutely 100% serious_ about every single item—the more ridiculous the demand, the harder he’d argue.

Peter had never been so marvelously entertained in his entire life. He of course signed off on everything.

_Let it be recorded: from this time forth, no sea urchin will be served at Peter Hale’s table!_

Of course not one thing was legally enforceable, but Peter already saw how abiding by the conditions could serve as leverage in future negotiations with both father and son.

And he’d genuinely liked the sheriff—liked and respected. John Stilinski was that rarity: a thoroughly decent man. And that was the other thing that decided Peter. Because throughout the entire visit, neither Stiles nor his father once mentioned money. In fact, he could tell it had not occurred to either of them, and more telling, that if Peter had made any kind of offer, the sheriff would have thrown him out of the house!  

Given that the Hale family assets currently amounted to more than two hundred million dollars, that was pretty remarkable.

Once the “negotiation” had finished, John Stilinski had given him a penetrating look. “I gotta tell you, Alpha Hale…”

“Peter, please.”

“Uh, Peter then. To be honest, I contacted you as a courtesy, because of your family’s history in Beacon Hills, but I didn’t expect you to actually mate Stiles—and I’m pretty sure you know that too, so I’d like to know what it is you’re doing here.”

Peter was impressed, and recognized that he’d have to tread very carefully. “You’re right. I had no intention of mating your son. I’ve never been attracted to an omega before and certainly never intended to take one as a mate.”

“Then why Stiles?”  

“I’m not actually sure I _can_ explain it. I mean, he’s obviously highly intelligent. It’s not many people who can challenge or surprise me. I can already tell he’d do so on a daily basis. And I can also tell that if things continue the way they have been, he’s going to destroy himself, which would be a terrible waste.”

“So it’s some sort of Alpha protective instinct?” The sheriff looked justifiably skeptical at that.

Peter laughed. “If so, it would be the first time. I’ll be completely honest with you, Sheriff. I’m not sure I can protect your son, not while he remains hell-bent on destroying himself. But, and this _is_ the Alpha in me speaking now, I am positive that I have a better chance of succeeding than anyone else.”

Nothing like a hard truth for bringing about a successful end to a negotiation. It took a few more minutes, but Peter could see the precise moment the father conceded.

“Look, Alpha, _Peter_ ,” the sheriff said finally. “I’m not going to stand in your way if you want to go through with this, but I’m also not going to force Stiles to accept an Alpha mating bite.”

“Of course not, Sheriff,” Peter soothed insincerely. “But if it’s all right with you, I’d like to speak to Stiles for a few minutes. Tell him about what life might be like in L.A. and hopefully get a sense of what he’s looking for.” Other than kicking Peter in the balls, that is.

Fortunately, the sheriff was too polite to eavesdrop which made everything much simpler when Stiles trudged in a few minutes later, bristling defiance. “Listen, I don’t know what the fuck you said…”

Flashing his eyes and drawing on the full extent of his Alpha power, Peter cut him off: “No omega, it’s your turn to listen.” He would never have quite this opportunity again, so he had no choice but to make the most of it. “I agreed to all of your conditions, and now it’s your turn to hear mine.”

“You can’t mean to claim me!” he sputtered.

“I do indeed.”

“I’ll go to Eichen House.”

“You’d really do that to your father, after everything he’s been through? Subject him to the sight of his beloved son, broken, drugged, restrained in some padded room?”

Stiles’ expressive face made clear exactly how effective plays on his love for his father would be. Peter stored that information away, determined to make sure the ploy _stayed_ effective by only using it when he absolutely had to triumph—like tonight.

It only took Stiles a moment to recover. “Then Scott will mate me!”

Peter was ready for that. “By all means,” he smirked. “I’d like nothing more than to prove my _devotion_ by challenging another Alpha for your hand.”

Stiles’ mouth opened and closed several times and Peter could actually see on his face the different stages of understanding as he grasped that for the first time in his life, he was dealing with an opponent he couldn’t bulldoze. The histrionics and outrage abruptly evaporated, to be replaced by steeliness.

What followed was a lengthy period of staring into each others’ eyes that was the polar opposite of romantic. But by the end of it a connection of sorts had been forged. Stiles was perceptive enough to recognize that Peter was not going to back down. That he knew exactly how reluctant Stiles was and just found it amusing. That all of his little omega antics were just making the Alpha more determined.

“Do we understand each other, Stiles?”

And then Peter caught it: the intoxicating scent of the omega’s surrender—as he realized that all of his options but one were being closed off.

“Stiles?” Peter prompted.

“I understand.”

“Lovely. As I said, I agreed to all of your father’s and your conditions and now I have three of my own, all very reasonable. Are you ready to hear them?”

Stiles nodded.

“One: I’ll look the other way on cannabis, but no other drugs.” Stiles’ bright red blush informed Peter that his guess was correct—Stiles’ self-destructive streak had pushed him to experiment with harder drugs. Really this mating was not coming a moment too soon.

“Two: you do not allow another Alpha to touch you sexually.”

Stiles rolled his eyes dramatically. “Duh.”

 _Good try._ “Does that other Alpha believe he has a claim?” Peter asked coldly.

“Scott? No, of course not.”

“No, not Scott McCall,” he sneered. “Jackson Whittemore.” One look at Stiles’ face and Peter knew his guess was right. There had been some glaring holes in all three boys’ accounts of _why_ Stiles would do something as demented as attempting to kidnap a fellow-student. But if the Alpha and omega were secretly fucking, everything instantly made sense—at least as much as it can for teenagers. Stiles was obviously a horny little shit and defiant enough he’d have no problem seducing an Alpha to violate the Omega Protection Laws.

Peter was pleased to see his comment had thoroughly rattled Stiles. The omega swallowed a few times and then said, “Jackson won’t—since it happened, he hasn’t tried….”

“And your father has no idea?” Peter smiled. _That’s right—and if you don’t cooperate, he will know all about the Alpha who committed statutory rape with his omega son_. Stiles shook his head, looking panicked. “I’ll permit the relationship with McCall, which is more than _generous_ of me. But I absolutely forbid so much as an email to your former lover.”

Stiles rallied at this. “Dude, see here’s the problem. You _forbid_ me? You’ll _permit_ me? That’s not how this is gonna roll.”

“It is if you don’t want me to challenge Jackson—which would be well within my rights. He _deflowered_ my omega.” Peter couldn’t _quite_ say that with a straight face, but it didn’t matter. Stiles was far too bright not to recognize this as the rankest manipulation. But Peter had long observed that the most obvious manipulations were often the most effective. They were certainly the most entertaining.

Stiles looked like he wanted to argue, but he knew when he’d been beaten. Finally he snarled, “You said three.”

 _Brat_. Peter moved closer and put his hand on Stiles throat, not squeezing, but quite intimidating nonetheless—and my, did that work! Fear and lust—the scents practically flooded the room.

“Three.” Peter smiled wolfishly. “When you run away from me, you do not attempt to leave Los Angeles.” Stiles shuddered, all resistance seeming to collapse at once, and Peter had the satisfaction of knowing he’d played his hand flawlessly. “What do you say, omega?”

“Why are you doing this?” he whispered.

“Oh darling,” Peter answered, voice pitying. “You know exactly why I’m doing this.” He slid his hand around to the back of Stiles’ head where he gripped what he could of his short hair and pulled his head back.

And then he kissed him—a real kiss, from an Alpha to his mate.

It was _a tad_ clichéd. Then again, no one could blame Peter for using those tools at his disposal, namely playing on the sexual desperation of a teenaged omega.  

Stiles barely managed two seconds of resistance before he groaned and then _threw himself_ at Peter, literally humping his leg like the proverbial omega in heat.

“Easy, pup, easy,” Peter murmured, moving his hand to grip Stiles’ throat again.

“This is too fucked up,” Stiles groaned, leaning his head back to bare his neck. So young Whittemore had taught Stiles about the pleasures of submitting to an Alpha. _Useful_.

“Much better, omega,” Peter taunted, since it wasn’t like he could fuck Stiles here in his father’s office.

Stiles reacted predictably. “Fuck you, you fucking bastard.”

“Soon, darling,” Peter said, flashing his eyes and drawing on every shred of his Alpha power. “But for right now, we are going to walk out of this room together, and in front of your father I will give you the mating bite.”

“Here? Tonight?”

“I’d prefer to complete the mating before you try to run. Why, were you hoping for a traditional biting and collaring in front of friends and family at the local country club?”

“Fuck you—and Peter, I will never wear your collar.”

It did something to Peter, hearing his name on Stiles’ lips. Like somehow they had skipped over all the usual stages of getting to know each other, and had arrived in spite of themselves at actual, authentic intimacy.

Peter just grinned in a way he knew the omega would find intolerably provoking. “Is that so?”

“Yes, asshole. Swear it—swear you’ll never force me!”

“Very well. Of course, I swear that I will never _force_ you to wear my collar. Isn’t it lovely that we can reach an agreement like this?”

Stiles obviously hadn’t realized that he’d just agreed to take the bite right then. “You’re going to regret this.” The poor thing was trying for defiance, but his cracked voice gave him away.

“Angel, there is something you need to understand about me—about us,” Peter said, all gentleness. “It is _extremely_ unlikely that _I_ will regret this. Do you understand?”  

The poor boy was staring at him with those adorable doe eyes, looking so young and lost. _Delicious_.

“Stiles?”

“Fine,” he mumbled.

 _“Answer me properly,”_ he snapped in the Alpha tone.

“Yes. Alpha,” more clearly.

“Perfect. Take my hand.”

And thus it was that Peter Hale found himself with a seventeen-year-old incorrigible for a mate.

That had only been the first of many battles, but Peter had not felt so much as a sliver of regret. That probably should have been surprising but in fact Peter had known he wouldn’t. Stiles was utterly infuriating, fully as defiant as his record had predicted. He’d run away six times already.

But he was endlessly challenging and Peter had never been so stimulated by anything in his entire life.

He should have known, however, that Stiles would keep raising the stakes. This was the longest he’d managed to disappear—twenty-two days and—Peter glanced at the clock on his desk—nine hours.

And it had been like he’d simply vanished. Peter routinely monitored all of Stiles’ cell and online activity, and there’d not been a single blip—nothing on any of his social media accounts, no posts that could have been him on the omega boards he frequented, and of course he’d not touched a credit card or tried to access his bank account.

That last part was especially galling. At this moment, Stiles had $32,746 in his main checking account, money he was free to use with laughably few restrictions, something most omegas could only dream of. His platinum card had no limit. But of course, spending any of the generous allowance Peter gave him, money he had every right to, was too much for Stiles’ contrary disposition, so instead before running, he’d raided Peter’s wallet—and Boyd’s as well.

Obviously, anyone who’d seen an episode of _Law and Order_ knew not to use their credit card when they didn’t want to be found, but Peter would have been willing to negotiate some method that protected both his mate and his own sanity. Especially since one painful fact had become all too clear: his mate wouldn’t—indeed couldn’t—relent. No matter how dire his situation got, he would never, ever call. Peter had to find him and drag him home again.

Peter pulled out a small key that unlocked a hidden compartment on the side of his desk for things he absolutely needed to keep hidden from his nosy mate.

Inside was a flat velvet box. He picked it up, mentally reviewing the various ways tonight might play out.

“Boss?”

“Yes?” Peter looked up—how long had Boyd been standing there?

“Erica called—it’s done. Also, Isaac’s got those contracts for you. ”

“Forget those for right now. I have something else for him to do.”

It would be tonight. Peter had had enough. Time for serious work: he needed to think through every angle, every move Stiles might make. Like that first night they met, he could not afford any mistakes. His omega had run away for the last time.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to break the illustrated tumblr version into two posts, cleverly entitled Chapter 3A and 3B, which include pictures of Erica, Boyd, an abandoned garage, a padded room, SWAT team members, and an actual Maybach.   
> Here be links: [You Can Run: Chapter 3A](http://liliaford.tumblr.com/post/140942244306/you-can-run-chapter-3a)  
> [You Can Run: Chapter 3B](http://liliaford.tumblr.com/post/140943861851/you-can-run-chapter-3b)  
> 

Stiles did not break his neck riding down La Cienega, so that was something.

But somehow the damage was done, the apple had been bitten, scales from his eyes, blah blah—basically there was no recovering the comfy obliviousness he’d enjoyed just that morning.

The upshot was that tonight, when Stiles coughed up his last $20 to cover more than _half_ the tab for Chinese food for the entire pack, Donovan’s hearty smile and slap on the back felt both insulting and sinister. As did the fact that no one seemed to give a shit that Corey wasn’t at dinner.

No one else even bothered with a thank-you as they scarfed down cartons of pork fried rice and _Kung Pao_ chicken. Stiles managed a single egg-roll before he was forced to give up.

He really, really regretted giving up his last joint, because he was rapidly approaching his danger zone for freakouts, and he felt too sick and uneasy to risk a swig from the bottle of Jack that was circulating.

It wasn’t helping his higher-level functioning that the temperature seemed to drop about 30˚ the moment the sun set.

Ever since Stiles had moved to SoCal with Peter, the cold nights had been a major grievance. It was the great American fraud! Sun and palm trees equal _warm_. And Peter’s whole thing about L.A. being a desert was just more bullshit since, hello, deserts are hot! And unlike in northern California, none of the buildings in L.A. seemed to have proper heat.

Huge surprise, the garage had none—as in zilch. That combined with the concrete floors and walls meant the building was only slightly more comfortable than the average meat-locker. Everyone else seemed used to it, but the cold really was going to drive him batshit. Finally, at 10pm Hayden took pity on him and made him lie down with her in the “omegazone,” basically a mildewed mattress shoved in a far corner that the three of them shared.

As they huddled under their sole blanket, Stiles’ new Rasta cap pulled over his head along with the hood of his sweat-shirt, he decided that the whole thing was getting a bit too _Oliver Twist_ even for him. He could practically taste Peter’s scorn and for once Stiles could kinda agree that there was something really fucked up and bogus about running away from a mansion in the Hollywood Hills to freeze his ass off in some abandoned garage.

He felt even more shitty when Corey finally showed close to midnight, reeking of Alpha and sex. Stiles desperately wanted to say something, but Corey cut him off with a sharp, “I’m fine,” and slid under the covers on the other side of Hayden.

At least Corey brought needed warmth and Stiles nodded off, his face nuzzled on Hayden’s neck, legs all tangled together. And really, not even Donovan, Theo or an unheated garage could ruin the profound comfort of an omega puppy pile.

Until the world literally went to shit.

Stiles snapped awake into a chaos of screams and flying bodies. It took his brain an embarrassing amount of time to grasp that he was smack in the middle of a police raid.

Stiles had seen plenty on TV but no amount of marathoned episodes of _The Shield_ could prepare him for the sight of a dozen cops in full tactical gear, bearing Sig Sauer S.W.A.T. rifles, pouring into a room full of sleeping teenagers. Even for the fascists in the L.A.P.D., this should not be S.O.P. for busting some squatters in an abandoned garage. These guys were acting like they were storming El Chapo’s stronghold. They’d not even given them time to surrender.

Their spot in the omegazone gave him a decent vantage to watch as officers began roughly pulling kids to their feet and shoving them against the wall. Donovan tried to make a run for it and got a nightstick to the skull for his trouble. Josh could actually fight and managed to bring down a cop with a roundhouse to the balls, before he was Tased, while Tracy punched another cop in the throat before someone else slammed her in the head with the butt of his rifle.

Stiles had seen enough and struggled to disentangle himself from Corey and Hayden so he could remind these assholes that there was this thing called the Bill of Rights. But before he could get up, Corey grabbed him. “Stay down. Most of the S.W.A.T. guys are Alphas. You don’t want to get in there when their blood’s up.”

“What, like you think they’ll bite you?” Stiles said with maximum sarcasm. He wanted to say that his father was a county sheriff, so Stiles knew a thing or twenty about the law, and any officer in Beacon Hills who force-mated an omega would face twenty-to-life.

“Yes, fuckhead,” Corey snapped. “And not you: me and Hayden, since neither of us is mated. Right Stiles?”

Stiles swallowed, suddenly feeling like a heel and an idiot for imagining he could fool another omega about his status. He’d known it intellectually, but for the first time he really _got_ how incredibly vulnerable Hayden and Corey were—unmated omega runaways. For all his problems with Peter, he never questioned that his Alpha would—and could—protect him. And in Beacon Hills he’d been the sheriff’s bratty omega son, well-known to every single deputy, and completely untouchable.

“Where are the omegas?” one of the officers yelled.

Another started coming towards them. “I got eyes on them—three,” he said into his shoulder mic. “Okay pups, nice and easy. You know the drill. On your knees, hands clasped behind your head.”

What the fuck? Since when was that the _drill_? He was opening his mouth to demand where the required omega liaison officer was, when Corey elbowed him hard. “Help me get her up.”

Stiles realized that Hayden was virtually catatonic with fear. He and Corey struggled to get her up, but she began shaking and hyperventilating.

“I need a med-kit,” the officer radioed. “These guys are hysterical.”

“Please, sir,” Corey begged, getting frantic himself. “She won’t fight. She’s got a kidney condition. Please—no meds.”

The officer just snapped into the mic, “I need that hypo now.”

“Did you fucking hear?” Stiles shouted. “She’s got a medical condition—and where the fuck is our liaison officer?”

And that’s when everything went totally to shit.

The officer barked something, and suddenly four massive Alphas were wrestling them onto the ground, forcing all of them into padded arm-binders and ankle cuffs—which was when Stiles started to really freak.

Bottom line: Stiles didn’t do restraints. Like the first time a teacher tried to put him in “therapeutic restraints” after an “altercation” with Jackson during eighth grade, he’d ended up in the hospital with a full-blown panic attack, contradicting about ten thousand studies on omega psychology.

And indeed, it was bad enough that he was almost sure he was screaming for Peter when he finally felt the prick from the hypo and sank into oblivion.

 

***

 

Stiles woke totally disoriented, which quickly began sliding into panic when he realized he was still restrained.

“Stiles, Stiles, it’s okay. You’re okay.” His eyes snapped open to find Corey rubbing against his cheek. “Dude. Stiles, you’re safe, breathe…” he was saying.

Strangely the scenting, like, _worked_ —really well—which made Stiles wonder why no one had ever tried it with him during his previous panic attacks.

Not that that was really his biggest problem right now.

“Where the fuck are we?” he grunted, even as he gathered from the padded walls and floor and total absence of furniture that they were in an omega-safe holding cell.

“Thank God,” Corey gasped. “Here, let me help you sit up. I need your help with Hayden.”

Stiles realized that Corey was free of the restraints and that there were no Alphas near, which helped him keep it together. Corey pulled him up and over to where Hayden was lying with her eyes open, seemingly catatonic.

“Shit, this isn’t good. It’s like she’s in shock. We need to get help.”

“No!” Corey snapped. “The doctor’s an Alpha—she’s already been in once.”

Stiles wanted to protest that by law they should have been evaluated by an omega social worker—that they should never have been touched by an Alpha. But he was realizing that his previous arrests—all in Beacon Hills—were nothing like this.

There was not much he could do with his arms still in the binder, but he shuffled over to lean against the wall, while Corey lifted Hayden so her head was across Stiles’ lap. Corey proceeded to rub his face against every bit of her exposed skin. As with Stiles the scenting seemed to work, because five minutes later her eyes blinked, and she whispered, “What happened?”

“Hey girl—you’re back,” Corey said with a bright smile.

“Oh my god, did I totally lose it? Corey, I’m so sorry.”

“Fuck that. I’m just glad you’re back with us.”

“Where are we?”

“Omega holding,” Corey answered. “Hold on a second.” He went up to the door and tapped on the safety glass. A female officer came over. “Ma’am, they’re both calm. Would it be alright if I released them?” Corey asked, playing the sweet, deferential omega to the max, something Stiles couldn’t manage standing in front of a judge with his entire future on the line.

The woman opened the door and tossed him some keys. Corey smiled like he was about to keel over from gratitude. “Thank you so much, Ma’am.”

The door closed, Corey’s face shut down so fast, Stiles almost laughed. Corey found the right key to unlock Stiles’ arm-binder, pulling it off. “Oh my fucking god, thank you!” Stiles gasped and grabbed the keys to unlock the ankle restraints himself, before giving them back.

“I don’t think they’re going to charge us,” Corey said as he pulled off Hayden’s arm restraints.

“What about the others?” Hayden asked, which sent a bolt of guilt through Stiles since he hadn’t given them a thought until that moment.

“After they tranq’d you guys, some cop yelled out that he’d found a cache of drugs—heroin, meth, coke. And with three omegas there—that makes it an aggravated charge.”

“That had to be a plant, right?” Stiles protested. “I never saw any of them dealing.”

Corey shrugged. “Maybe. Nothing we can do about it either way.”

“Oh my god, do you think they’ll call my foster parents?” Hayden cried. “Corey, I cannot go back there…”

“Shh. Don’t worry. I won’t let that happen, I swear.”

Stiles choked back a comment, knowing that there was almost nothing either of them could do to stop them from sending Hayden back.

_Peter on the other hand…_

Stiles’ face burned. He’d promised himself that he’d never, _ever_ call his Alpha for help.

As always, the injustice of it made him want to scream, or puke, or punch something—all things he’d done in the past, and not one of which had ever helped him a fucking iota. From the moment he’d presented, the world seemed to instantly transform into a place where he had no voice, where teachers and therapists and fellow students could threaten and manipulate and gaslight him, and every fucking time he tried to fight it, they’d warn him to calm down or he’d be tranq’d and put in restraints. And the only time anyone actually believed him was when Scott—an Alpha—vouched for him.

But tonight Stiles had no choice but to suck it up, because when all was said and done, he had a powerful Alpha to speak for him. He was insulated from the full consequences of this injustice or his own fuck-ups. Corey and Hayden had no such luxury.

That fact was made horrifyingly clear the next moment, when he heard a smarmy voice call out, “Wow, looks like you got yourself into some trouble, babe.”

Theo and his fucking Mets cap--like life hadn’t taken enough of a dump on them for one goddamned night! “You called him?” Stiles burst out.

“Who the fuck was I supposed to call?” Corey shot back.

Stiles sputtered as Theo walked in, grinning smugly. “Chill, guys. I’ll get all of you out.”

Hayden immediately shut down again. “Hayden, Hayden,” Corey pleaded, “He can help us. I won’t—he won’t do anything, I promise.”

Stiles fumbled for what to say when he spotted Boyd watching from the door. What a mindfuck—part of him was almost gasping with relief, while the other was on the verge of panic at the thought of how Peter would react to having to bail his omega out of jail.

But just because Stiles was completely and unequivocally hosed didn’t mean he couldn’t still do something for Hayden and Corey. “Listen, I can get you out of this, I swear. You don’t need to go with him!”

“You mean your Alpha can,” Corey said acidly. “The one you ran away from.”

Some part of him must have sensed that Corey was a lost cause. Stiles grabbed Hayden’s hand. “Hayden, look at me. I _swear_ it on my mother’s grave: my Alpha is a complete fucking bastard, but if I ask he will help you. Really help you.”

“Come on, Corey, let’s go,” Theo warned.

“Boyd!” Stiles ordered. “Give me your phone.”

Boyd spared Stiles his usual _are you for real?_ look, but pulled out his phone, unlocked it, and tossed it to him.

Stiles hit Peter’s number on the speed dial. “I need your help,” he said before Peter could say anything.

“Is that so?” Peter’s voice was ice cold, but Stiles forced himself to ignore it.

“Two omegas were picked up with me. One of them is underage, and she’s terrified of Alphas.” There was a dangerous pause and Stiles had no choice but to go for broke. “Just tell me what you need me to say, Peter, and I’ll fucking say it.”

“You disappeared for three weeks: you know what I want.”

To implant him with an RFID chip like a fucking pet—way to hit below the belt. “You can’t ask me that!”

“In other words, you want my help but you’ll give me nothing in return.”

“I didn’t… That’s not…”

“Give Boyd the phone.”

“Peter…”

“You won’t even obey me in that?” Peter said bitterly.

Stiles shuddered and his eyes momentarily burned. He couldn’t think or he’d lose it. “I’ll do it,” he said shakily. “I’ll get it.”

“Put Boyd on.”

Stiles gave Boyd back his phone, and slumped down next to Hayden.

Theo laughed heartily. “Ouch. Looks like someone’s getting chipped. Don’t worry, Corey, you’re next. Now on your feet. It’s time for us to go.”

Corey looked torn. “He’d help you too,” Stiles pleaded.

“You’re sure Hayden will be okay?” Corey whispered.

Stiles nodded. He was sure—if only because Peter would never pass up the advantage this was going to give him. Corey seemed to get it. “Good luck,” he whispered and scented them both one last time before getting up and leaving with Theo.

In the meantime, Boyd had hung up and was relaxing near the door, from the sounds playing _Boom Beach_ on his phone, making no move to leave.

Stiles nuzzled Hayden, half for her sake and, he couldn’t kid himself, half for his own.

About five minutes later, Erica came in. Stiles instantly sensed something different about her: most of the time, she acted like she was a second away from slugging Stiles and tossing him in a dumpster. Now, the beta ignored him completely and crouched down in front of Hayden. “Hi, Hayden, right? My name’s Erica. How about you and I go get some coffee and just talk?”

“She doesn’t like Alphas,” Stiles murmured.

Erica shot him a sneering look, but said gently to Hayden, “That’s fine, cuz I don’t like Alphas either.”

“You can trust her. You should go with her.” Boyd, actually deigning to speak! Stiles’ jaw dropped.

To Stiles’ infinite gratitude, Hayden seemed to get that Boyd and Erica were on the level--at least, that they were not the types to screw over a fifteen-year-old omega who’d already been fucked over by the world. Stiles, being the biggest migraine in both their lives, did not receive the same consideration.

“Erica has my number. You can call me any time,” he said, eliciting a snort from Erica. It was not at all clear if that was true, but Stiles made a command decision that letting them talk had to be included in Peter’s agreement to help Hayden.

“What do you say, kiddo?” Erica said, the nicest he’d ever seen her.

Hayden shivered but nodded and reached out her hand for Erica to help her stand up. Erica gave her a reassuring hug, but before they could leave, she reached over and ripped the stupid Rasta cap off his head, exposing the green fauxhawk.

“Oh. My. God!” Erica shook her head at Boyd. “This is so your problem.”

Hayden shot him a sympathetic look as she walked out with Erica.

Boyd was wearing the most long-suffering iteration of his usual inscrutable expression. “Fucking A,” he muttered towards his gods. “Put the cap back on,” he snapped, as he grabbed Stiles by his upper arm and yanked him to his feet.

“Excuse me?” Stiles snapped back, because _hello_ , he did not take orders from Boyd.

Boyd looked ready to punch him, but restricted himself to grabbing Stiles by the scruff of his neck and dragging him from the room. “Kid, it is three in the fucking morning, and I am not dealing with Peter having a conniption and demanding I get an emergency stylist to the house to fix your hair.”

Galling as it was to obey, Stiles opted for once to choose his battles and put the cap back on and put up his hood as an extra precaution. It was a good thing, because once they exited the station, the first thing he saw was the Maybach idling in the emergency zone. He couldn’t help freezing.

“Stop fucking around,” Boyd growled, obviously _done_ with Stiles’ shit for tonight. Boyd opened the door.

Deep breath. Time to face the music, or the lion’s den, or whatever. It was just Peter. His Alpha. His incredibly pissed off Alpha.

He was so fucked.


	4. Chapter 4

For exactly one second, Stiles thought he’d gotten a tiny reprieve when he saw that Peter was on his cell.

And then he realized who Peter was talking to.

“Hi John, I’m sorry to call so late, but I thought you’d want to know the moment we got him…. Yes, there won’t be any charges.”

Fuck, it was his dad. And there Stiles was thinking he couldn’t possibly feel like a bigger piece of shit. And this wasn’t even Peter’s fault: of course he’d had to tell his dad that Stiles had disappeared. He’d been gone for three weeks.

Peter finally looked over at him as if in answer to his dad’s question. On another day his expression of horror would be hilarious. “He’s tired and a little thin perhaps,” he said, while whipping a packet of safety wipes from the compartment next to his seat and tossing it at Stiles.

Stiles didn’t even think about arguing, but used the wipes to remove the guyliner and lipstick, stuffing the dirty wipes in the embossed leather wastebasket that apparently came standard in cars that cost a half million dollars.

“Yes, if it’s all right, he and I should probably talk now. He’ll call you as soon as he’s awake…. You too, John, and thank you again.”

Stiles took a deep breath and tried to pull it together or this was going to be _bad_.

Peter clicked off his phone. “I can scent another Alpha on you.”

 _Oh fuck_. “It wasn’t… I wouldn’t… It was one of the other omegas….”

“The one you called about?”

“No, that was Hayden. Corey didn’t… he wouldn’t.”

“So it was true: that pack leader, _Donovan_ , was whoring his omegas out, in return for use of the garage?”

“No—maybe—I’m not sure.”

Peter’s look was so withering, Stiles cringed. “You’re not sure?”

“I didn’t realize,” he spat out desperately. “I just found that out today.”

“After three whole weeks with them? Curious, because Boyd figured it out within an hour after finding who you were… _staying_ with.”

There was no safe answer to that. Stiles squeezed his hands together, digging his nails into his wrist. Most of the time their fights were like a game, with each of them jockeying for advantage. Peter only went for the jugular like this when he was truly furious. And to Stiles’ endless disgust, his Alpha’s anger always felt like the apocalypse.

“And the omega—Corey?—he left with that Alpha?”

“He wouldn’t—I tried to convince him that you’d help him….”

“I take it this was _after_ you were all arrested? Apparently discovering the real truth was not enough reason to leave the group. You truly didn’t think you could call me? That I would refuse to help an omega being exploited like that?” When he didn’t respond, Peter ordered, “Answer me.”

“I knew you’d help. That’s why I asked you,” Stiles tried to fight back, but he could feel himself spiraling. It was characteristic of Peter’s special brand of mindfuckery that anger made him _more_ strategic and manipulative, until it felt like each comment was precisely calibrated to elicit a specific response from his omega. Tragically for Stiles, the combination of exhaustion, getting arrested, and (apparently) soul-crushing guilt was pushing him rapidly towards hysteria.

“To hear you,” Peter bit out, “you’d think I’d done nothing but abuse you since you came to live with me. Maybe if I’d held firm about your returning to school instead of indulging this insatiable need of yours to rebel, you might be thinking about applying to law school—in a position to help vulnerable omegas instead of standing by while they’re exploited.”

Peter wasn’t going to stop until Stiles was reduced to quivering abjection, but Stiles refused to go down without a fight. “It’s not like you give a shit about some random omegas!”

“No, indeed, I couldn’t care less about them. But I _would_ protect them—if you asked.”

“None of this means anything to you—that’s not why you’re mad at me!” he screamed. “It’s all just some sick power play—mindgames. To get me to say yes to the fucking chip!”

“Mindgames?” Peter’s voice was pure ice. “My omega vanishes for three weeks. Without a single word to say if he is safe, or even _alive_. I then discover he’s been in the company of a pack of beta degenerates who have no problem whoring out the teenaged omegas dependent on them—and apparently when I try to do the only thing I can think of to protect him, it’s a sick power play.”

It was too much. He just needed it to stop. It didn’t matter that Peter had deliberately pushed him here.

He screamed and threw himself at the Alpha, right arm flailing out in a ludicrous attempt to punch him. Peter caught him effortlessly, twisting his right arm behind him and pinning the left. Stiles struggled, straining the muscles in his arm.

 _“Stop fighting, omega,”_ Peter snapped out in the Alpha tone.

And there it was. Now, he could let go—no more fighting. He collapsed against Peter, sobbing so hard he was gasping, trying to twist so he could mash his face against his Alpha’s neck.

“Please, Peter, I can’t take it, please stop being mad,” he bawled like a goddamned toddler, well aware that nothing but the most abject submission would satisfy Peter. The problem of course was that nothing else would satisfy Stiles either.

“Shh, it’s all right, darling. Fold your arms behind you.”

Stiles stiffened. “NO! No, Peter, please, I can’t, please…”

“Just until we get home,” Peter murmured. “You need this.”

“No, not when you hate me, I can’t take it.”

“Easy, darling. I never hate you. I promised I’d never punish you when I’m angry—have I ever broken my word?”

“No,” he sobbed.

“Do you need me to make you?”

“Oh god.”

_“Fold your arms behind you.”_

Stiles shuddered, but he couldn’t fight—didn’t want to fight. He folded his arms behind his back, gripping the elbows.

Peter pulled out one of the binders he always kept on him. It was black, made of some stretchy high-tech fabric, nothing like the heavy canvas ones used by the L.A.P.D., which were stained yellow with age and omega misery.

“Breathe, Stiles,” Peter said calmly as he slipped it on and pulled the Velcro fasteners tight.

It was like some sort of sick role play between them, one that had been going on since the night they met. He’d defy Peter, who’d provoke him back, both of them knowing exactly where it was going.

_I know that Peter knows that I know that Peter knows…._

He’d told himself to stop playing Peter’s games, so many times, but by now Stiles had no choice but to recognize that it wasn’t just Peter. He pushed for things—badwrong things, that he shouldn’t, _didn’t_ want—at all—except he couldn’t seem to stop it. He did it often enough, Stiles sometimes wondered if it wasn’t Peter at all—that maybe Peter only played along because of him.

The first time someone tried to restrain him he’d ended up in the hospital and three hours ago the L.A.P.D. had to tranq him to bring him under control. Meanwhile, all Peter had to do was order him to take it and he was practically humping his Alpha’s leg.

It felt like this filthy secret, literally worse than if they’d been going in for scat play. Necrophilia with dead sheep. It was disgusting.

Humiliating.

Addictive.

At least the coldness and anger that Stiles found so unbearable were gone. Peter’s eyes were glowing a steady red and he was definitely aroused now. Peter pulled Stiles’ socks and shoes off and then lifted him so he could yank his leggings and board shorts all the way off, leaving him naked from the waist down.

“You’re such a fucking psycho,” Stiles said hoarsely.

“I know, angel. Straddle my lap.”

“Fuck,” Stiles groaned but obeyed, twisting himself around to face Peter and get his knees over the Alpha’s lap. He couldn’t help squirming, trying to rub his dick against Peter’s annoyingly impressive abs, only to have the Alpha slap his bare ass, hard.

“Hold still,” Peter warned.

_Ohfuckohfuckohfuck._

Peter gripped his ass, fingers edging tantalizing far into his crack, but forcing him to hold still as he palmed Stiles’ dick.

Crap, too light. If Peter tried to edge him tonight Stiles was going to lose it, for real.

“There’s my sweet omega,” Peter crooned. “So docile.”

“I fucking hate you,” Stiles groaned.

Another slap, harder.

“Keep that up, and I’ll decide you need something in your mouth,” Peter warned, slowing his strokes just enough.

“Peter, come on, I can’t take this,” Stiles gritted, like an idiot trying to thrust his hips enough to rub against Peter’s bulging erection.

Peter instantly let go of his dick and grabbed both his hips to stop him. _“Stay still,”_ he ordered. “You’ll come when you’re being obedient.”

“I hate this fucking game!”

“No you don’t,” Peter smirked.

No he didn’t. He totally did not hate this game.

“Come on, darling,” Peter soothed. “We’re almost home. Stop fighting me. If you want to come, you’ll stay perfectly still and let me bring you off.”

Stiles forced himself to relax, resting his head on Peter’s shoulder, drinking in his scent, his warmth. Peter nibbled at his throat while he continued his slow strokes, no doubt relying on Stiles’ own scent to tell him how much to push to keep him on edge. He could feel the car climbing as they got close to Peter’s ludicrous, Starchitect-design-porn mansion in the Hollywood Hills.

“Much better, angel. Now, ask me nicely,” Peter murmured.

“Please, Alpha, please let me come,” Stiles begged shamelessly. Peter’s grip tightened just enough, his pace increasing until Stiles felt his thigh muscles tightening over Peter’s legs, his arms straining against the binder—like he could push and struggle and fight and it didn’t matter. Peter wouldn’t let go.

A lot of the time—like 84% of the time!—he felt outraged and terrified about that. Right now he was too wrung out and fucked up to feel anything but comforted. Safe.

“Oh, fuck, Peter!” Jolts of pleasure shot through him, as if some force yanked every fiber in his body at once only to release it a second later. Peter hadn’t touched his ass, but the muscles there were spasming hungrily—like they were pissed off that Peter’s ginormous cock wasn’t shoving inside. And in his poor asses’ defense, it had been 23 days minus two hours since he’d been boned by the abovementioned ginormous cock.

And yeah, the binder made it more intense. Like, having his arms bound, being controlled by Peter, concentrated every sensation, boiled them down, into, like, the distilled essence of omega ecstasy.

He sank against Peter’s chest, groaning in fake protest when Peter tapped his fingers against Stiles’ mouth so he could clean his own jizz off of them.

Stiles tried to turn his head away, but then Boyd opened the door. He’d not even realized they were home.

Great—he was half naked and had just shot his load with Boyd listening in—not exactly unheard of but which he still found sorta embarrassing; and he had the arm-binder on, which rose to the level of totally mortifying.

“Stiles,” Peter warned.

He could feel his face burning. He was not getting out of this car—or the restraints—until he obeyed.

He glanced up at Boyd, who looked like he really didn’t get paid enough for this shit. Somehow the beta’s combination of boredom and disapproval made Stiles’ dick perk up—approximately 47 seconds after he’d shot his load. Peter was right: he was a horny little shit. Oh well.

Stiles closed his eyes and took Peter’s fingers into his mouth, giving them a slobbery, porn-worthy tongue bath.

“There’s my sweet omega,” Peter singsonged, because he was a smug asshole.

Some part of Stiles grasped that the orgasm should have left him sleepy, but perhaps the effort of staying conscious had pushed him past that magical mellow moment over into hyper. He began bouncing on Peter’s lap, struggling against the binder. “Come on, Peter,” he whined, “Lemme out of this.”

“Brat,” Peter slapped his ass again. “You were gone twenty-three days. You’re going to be living in that binder.”

“You said until we got hooooome. Come on, you promised.”

Peter rolled his eyes but ripped the Velcro fastenings apart and slipped the binder off. When Stiles tried to reach for his shorts, though, Peter grabbed them and handed them to Boyd. “Clothes off. You’re not entering my house with that Alpha’s scent on you.”

“You just want me naked,” Stiles pouted as Peter pulled his T-shirt and sweatshirt over his head.

Unfortunately, the Rasta cap slipped off at the same time—revealing the green fauxhawk.

Peter froze, staring at him, and Stiles could practically see the vein pulsing in his neck as he confronted the galaxy-ending outrage that was his omega’s hair.

He shouldn’t laugh. Peter would definitely find ways--filthy, kinky ways that involved Stiles’ not coming--to make him regret it, but Peter’s expression of horror was just too funny. In business and politics Peter was, like, the epitome of the ruthless Alpha shark, but when it came to Stiles’ hair and clothing he was a prissy middle-aged fussbudget.

“Ten thousand.”

Both Peter and Stiles looked up at Boyd who was still standing by the door. “Excuse me,” Peter said, voice lethal.

“That’s what it will cost if you want me to go driving around L.A. at 4am to find a stylist,” Boyd said. “Or, I can text Gianni and ask him to send someone over first thing in the morning—that I’ll do for free.”

Stiles fought it, but he couldn’t keep the snort of laughter from escaping.

“Laugh again, and you will find yourself in chastity for the next week.”

Stiles almost choked. Peter did not make empty threats. Now was definitely a good time to get out of the car. He scrambled off of Peter’s lap, practically howling when he felt the cold against his naked ass.

“Peter, it’s fucking freezing out here,” he wailed.

He tried to grab his sweatshirt back, but his Alpha thrust it at Boyd as he got out of the car. “Burn this!”

“Peter!”

“It reeks of that Alpha,” he snapped. Peter seriously looked like he was going to order Boyd to get back in the car—just to be a dick.

And, well, Stiles had known the hair would drive his Alpha crazy. Time for some omega wiles. He sidled up to his mate, working his hands underneath Peter’s shirt. “Peeeeter, please, I need you to warm me up.”

“Careful, angel,” Peter said, resting a warning hand on Stiles’ ass.

“You said earlier I needed something in my mouth.”

“What did I tell you about acting like a whore?”

“That you’d spank me?” Stiles batted his eyelids.

Boyd looked like he might lose his lunch--dinner. “I’m texting Gianni and then I am going the fuck to sleep.”

“Tell Gianni I don’t care what….”

“Yeah, yeah, you’ll pay any money to not have to look at that hair, and if he’s not here, I’ll regret being born, yada yada. Trust me, I already regret it. Good night.” Boyd walked back down the driveway towards the guest house he shared with Erica and Isaac.


	5. Chapter 5

 Peter scowled as Boyd disappeared, and then turned suspiciously on Stiles.

“I didn’t laugh—I swear!” Stiles pinched his lips together.

Peter blinked at him suddenly. “You’re acting manic. When did you last eat?”

He was. Kind of. Manic. “Uh, I had an eggroll at dinner.” Half an eggroll.

Peter looked him over appraisingly. “You’ve lost weight.”

“No way!” Seriously—if Peter decided he’d lost weight, he’d put him on some crazy L.A. sprouts-n-tofu diet.

“Yes, you have. Go get in the hot tub,” he ordered, as he unlocked the front door. “I’ll bring you something.”

“As long as it’s your dick!” Stiles shrieked as he failed to escape another smack to his ass.

Yeah, totally manic. Sue him—it was four in the morning, he’d been arrested, tranq’d, restrained, bailed out, and had just gone through Alphageddon with Peter.

He ran streaking through the open-plan house and out the sliding door to the deck, which was actually cantilevered over a cliff, and held a (totally pretentious) infinity pool and a (totally awesome) hot tub.

Over the railing, the City of Angels lay spread out, its bajillion flickering lights an amber blur from the smog. For some reason he thought of Hayden. If she were here, she’d probably get him to climb up on the railing so they could scream, “I’m the king of the world,” or something equally lame.

Lame but _awesome_. Stiles totally wanted to do it now. And it would wake up all of Peter’s fancy-pants celebrity neighbors, including that buttmuncher, Adam Levine, who lived two hills over. Snap!  

Before he could put his brilliant idea into practice, a gust of freezing, frigid wind, that got lost on its way from _Antarctica_ , blasted him.  

Cold, cold, cold.

Hot tub, hot tub, hot tub.

He ran down the length of the glowing indigo pool, to the steaming bubbling heaven that was Peter’s hot tub. Recalling a previous unfortunate incident, at the last minute he thought better of actually _jumping_ in, and made do with sitting down first and _then_ throwing himself in, creating an awesome splash.

Warmth!

Fuck, it felt amazing. He dunked his head a couple times, stretching out and reveling in how good it felt to get the stench of the garage and omega holding off of him. Was it possible he was actually happy to be…home?

Need. More. Splashes.

Yeah, he really was manic right now. Peter would probably ban all sugar from his diet for like a month just to be a dick.

Speaking of.

“Dick!” he yelled, because he was manic. And also obnoxious.

Peter was holding a tray with a bottle of sparkling water and a covered plate, along with a square, flat box under his elbow that looked a lot like a gift! For Stiles! Who totally loved gifts!

The Alpha put the tray down on the ledge of the hot tub and quickly stripped, of course folding his clothes and putting them neatly on one of the chaises.

Something smelled really delicious and Stiles lurched towards the tray, only to find himself caught by Peter who hefted him onto his stomach over the ledge of the hot tub.

“Peter!” He tried to turn over and got the mother of all slaps on his tender wet ass.

“Spread your legs,” Peter ordered.

Oh fuck. Peter grabbed the bottle of waterproof lube from the cabinet next to the tub and began working Stiles open with his fingers, all ruthless efficiency.

“Oh my god, omega here! I am totally wet!” he protested. He’d just come in the car—even he could scent his slick! “Besides, I wanna suck you—suck your big fat Alpha cock….”

“Quiet,” Peter snapped, in full Alpha mode now.

Peter sank down into the tub and without further ado pulled Stiles directly onto his dick, pinning his arms and holding him tightly so he couldn’t move at all. “Squeeze,” he murmured. “And again. Get a rhythm going that you can maintain. Do not stop.”

 _Definitely_ in full Alpha mode. Peter only did this when he wanted Stiles to really feel his control—because it was, like, invading his ass in the form of his ginormous Alpha cock. And talk about control: Peter could hold them like this forever—well, way longer than Stiles could handle without being reduced to a quivering, begging mess.

How did he go three weeks without this? Then again, Peter always seemed to go out of his way to make sure the sex was epic—well, _more_ epic—after Stiles got dragged back home.

Peter tapped on his mouth. “Open.”

Stiles groaned as an ecstasy of crunchy, cheesey, noodley awesomeness was plopped into his mouth. “Oh my god, you made Isaac make me mac-and-cheese balls? Did he, like, cry real beta tears?”

Apparently Isaac had trained at CIA, which was not the international spy agency but some fancy east-coast cooking school, and got all sad and wounded whenever Peter ordered him to make Stiles’ favorites foods.

“Eat, Stiles—and do not stop squeezing.” Peter fed him another mac-and-cheese ball, followed by a long sip of the sparkling water.

Stiles shuddered, squeezing Peter’s dick—fuck, it really was kinda weird to eat mac-and-cheese balls while getting boned by his Alpha.

Weird but _awesome_.

Peter fed him another tidbit. “Pretzel bites too!” Isaac’s were homemade and they were _so much better_ than the ones from the movie theater.

The food seemed to do the trick, getting his blood sugar back to normal and helping level out the hyperactivity—sort of.

Or maybe it was the warm water.

Or else Peter’s dick. Which he kept squeezing. On a rhythm. Because Peter was a controlling psycho. Who was incredibly hot.

After Peter fed him the last of the awesome balls of awesomeness, Stiles relaxed against him, vaguely conscious that he did not hate anything about his life at that moment.

Of course, then Peter had to go and ruin it by saying, “We need to talk, angel.”

“I don’t want the chip, Peter,” Stiles cried, flinching. Behind him, Peter went deadly still. “Don’t be angry!” Fuck, he could feel his anxiety start to rise. He could not take another fight. Stiles tried to twist around, but Peter tightened his grip.

Peter put a finger on his mouth. “Keep squeezing!” Urgh, the squeezing was making it hard to concentrate. And also just making him hard. “I’m not angry, darling. We need to talk about this, and that’s what we’re doing.”

“I really, really don’t want the chip. I’m not trying to screw you or go back on my word, I just really don’t want it.”

“Is it because I’ll be able to find you—when… you don’t want to be found?”

Was that pain in Peter’s voice? Stiles’ eyes burned, which was stupid!

He really wanted to squirm, but Peter was holding him too tightly. In fact, the only outlet he really had for his anxiety about this conversation was squeezing his ass muscles around Peter’s goddamned dick.

Which felt really fucking good.

“Darling?” Peter prompted. What were they talking about?—right, whether Peter would have him chipped like a prized cocker-spaniel.

“It’s not you, Peter, it’s just everything. Everything about our society is just so fucked. Why are omegas chipped at all? Why omegas and no one else? It’s like we’re one Supreme Court decision away from a fucking registry. They pretend it’s for _our_ safety, but really it’s about control. It’s so we know deep down that we’re really just pets, _precious_ property that people need to keep track of.”

Peter nibbled the spot on his neck with the mating bite—a classic calming gesture which Stiles was strung out enough to actually appreciate. “Do you wish you weren’t an omega?” Peter asked after a minute.

“I used to--right after. Like the day I got kicked off the lacrosse team because team sports were too fucking _stimulating_ for omegas—and Scott, who had asthma that put him in the hospital, was allowed to stay on. But later I realized that was a cop out. That if I’d been a beta like I wanted, that it would all be happening to someone else and I just wouldn’t give a shit.”

It occurred to Stiles that no one had ever asked him that before, which was kind of bogus given all the therapists and judges he’d been forced to talk to over the years. It didn’t surprise him that Peter would ask, though. And Stiles had to grant it to him: Peter would listen to his answer—he’d even understand it. He was a manipulative asshole, but he got shit.

“Stiles, I would absolutely hate it if I ever made you wish you weren’t an omega. You believe that, don’t you?”

“Yes, Peter.” He was not crying—it was just the mist from the hot tub.

“I admit, I don’t like the chips. I don’t like that the government is involved. And even though the RFIDs are voluntary for now, getting your omega chipped implies support for the practice, which can only encourage those who are pushing for more restrictive laws.”

“Why do I hear a ‘but’ at the end of that?”

“You agreed, angel,” Peter said gently. “You gave your word. And as things have been going, I’d be a fool to let that go.”

Stiles twisted again, wanting suddenly to get away—from everything. From Peter and how fucking nice he was being, from how fucked up this world was, from how fucked up he was. He was an omega, and he didn’t want that to change—not really. Because he _shouldn’t_ want it to change. Because there was nothing wrong with it—it was the world that was wrong. Because some of the best people he’d ever met were omegas.

But the reality of being an omega was that if you stepped out of line, if you were rude or fucked up or refused to follow the rules, even a little bit, the universe took a massive shit on your head.

He didn’t want to cry. Every time he cried, people just wrote it off as “omega volatility”—like an omega’s intenser emotions somehow gave people the right to invalidate every single thing he said or felt. Peter wouldn’t invalidate his feelings, but he’d ruthlessly take advantage of them to get his way—in part by making Stiles talk about this while he was impaled on his dick!

He squeezed again, trying to squirm, but was stopped when Peter put a warning hand on his dick. He was totally hard now.  

“We’re not done,” Peter said, stroking him in time with the squeezing. “I’d like to discuss a compromise.”

“Something instead of the chip?” he said shakily.

Peter let go of his dick and reached over to the side and picked up the gift box. It was flat and velvet like for jewelry. Or something.

“Is that what I think it is?”

“Open it,” Peter said. “Don’t worry, the water can’t damage it.”

Stiles flicked open the box: inside was a flat braided chain, about an inch wide, in what he thought might be platinum. There was a triskele hanging from the front with the name “Peter Hale” engraved on it.

“I said I wouldn’t wear a collar.”

“And I said I wouldn’t force you.” When Stiles made no move to touch it, Peter lifted it out and put the box on the side. He raised Stiles’ hand so he could run the chain along his fingers. Shimmering in the blue light from the hot tub, it was beautiful. Like quicksilver. It seemed light, almost delicate, but Stiles just knew that was an illusion: the chain itself would be virtually indestructible.

“I suppose this has a tracker in it too,” Stiles said, trying for snarky and failing miserably.

“Yes, I asked for the deluxe package.” How did Peter sound so calm! “It’s got a tracking chip, and a device that monitors heart rate and blood Ox levels.”

“Tranq dose?”

“Remote operated. That came standard on all collars.” _Ha ha_.

“Fuck, Peter. And this is supposed to be better than the chip?”

“Certainly, it is for me—immeasurably better. This would be between you and me. It has nothing to do with any law or government program. The tracking signal is encrypted and only I would have access to it, not the police or Omega Affairs. And the collar is the traditional symbol of an Alpha’s bond to his omega, like the wedding ring for betas.”

“It’s a collar because an omega was legally property.”

“Is that how I treat you, Stiles? Is that how you think of me or yourself? I agree that it _can_ signify dominance, though I believe the reality is often quite a bit more complicated—it is for us, certainly. It absolutely asserts my exclusive claim to you as your Alpha, so perhaps it implies a certain possessiveness. But you’re not my property in any way, so no, I don’t think the chain can signify that.”

“Would you wear one?” Stiles sneered.

To his surprise Peter answered immediately, “Of course--if you gave it to me. I’d be proud to wear it.” His voice was warm—like he was truly pleased by the thought.

“One with a tracking chip?”

“If you were the only one who could access it—yes. I have no problem with your always knowing where I am.”

“Your own personal stalker.” Stiles squirmed, but this time felt nothing but comfort when Peter held him tight. “How long have you had this?” he asked after a minute.

He could feel Peter’s laugh. “Thirteen months.”

“So, like, you ordered it right after we mated? Right after I told you I wouldn’t wear a collar. God, you are such a dick.”

“I promised I wouldn’t _force_ you to wear it. That didn’t mean I didn’t want you to. Stiles, the triskele is the symbol of the Hale pack, of my family. The idea of you or anyone wearing our symbol unwillingly is offensive to me. The same goes for the collar. I truly find repellent the idea that it would be a symbol of your hatred of me or our bond.”

“Fuck, Peter, way to lay it on. And don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing. Just because you’re being honest, doesn’t mean you’re not manipulating me.”

“Of course not, darling. I’d never insult your intelligence by not trying to manipulate you.”

Stiles was really too fucked up to be having this argument, which Peter damn well knew. “Can it be removed?”

“Yes, but once I fasten it, it can only be unlocked by the jeweler. And no, they will not remove it for you without my being there.”

A real Alpha mating collar. He couldn’t believe he was even thinking about this. And then there was the way Peter talked about it, which made it sound both perversely romantic and creepily Machiavellian. And Stiles couldn’t even tell which he liked better.

“Fine. I’m getting you one, though. Maybe not a chain, but something. And it’s going to have a big ‘Property of Stiles’ engraved on it.”

“What else could it possibly say?” Peter said and nibbled his ear affectionately. But before Stiles could protest or wiggle away, the damn thing was fastened around his neck!

That sent a jolt of anxiety rushing through him. He’d thought there’d be something—like a ceremony or a kiss or a ‘wilt thou take this collar around thy skinny, breakable neck?’ He’d thought he’d have more time to argue—wheedle—delay.

“OH MY GOD—you totally just played me. You fucking fuck—I can’t believe you!”

“Don’t be absurd, darling. You were obviously working yourself up into a frenzy of questions and arguments designed to delay matters. Now get up on the ledge. I’m going to fuck you.” He pulled Stiles off his dick and pushed him towards the edge. Peter grabbed one of the chaise cushions and shoved it under Stiles’ hips.

“I’m still mad at you, and it’s fucking cold!” Stiles snapped and then squealed as Peter shoved inside in a single thrust.

“Poor darling,” Peter smirked, but he immediately set an aggressive pace, bending Stiles’ right leg up to rest on the edge of the tub so he could go as deep as possible.

“Peter!” Stiles squawked as the Alpha nailed his prostate.

Peter bent over him, fingering the chain. “One thing I liked about this design,” he murmured, “was that it is perfect for this.” He spun the chain around so the triskele was in back and then started tugging on it, not quite cutting off Stiles’ air, but making him aware of the possibility.

This should not be that hot—it was his dick’s fault. He and his dick needed to have a serious talk about acting like a submissive little whore.

Another tug, sharper.

_Wow, I guess Peter really likes the collar—like a lot._

Stiles felt kinda stupid for not realizing that earlier.

And now, thinking about Peter liking the collar was doing things to him, mental things—and also to his dick. Which had some issues they really needed to talk about.

“Did you miss me, omega?” Peter snarled, not angry but definitely intent on leaving an impression. Like by pounding Stiles’ poor omega ass so hard he wasn’t going to be able to walk. Not that Peter would probably let him. He had a feeling his Alpha was going to keep him tied to their bed for the next week at least.

Which, seriously, _Oh my god!_

Peter yanked the chain. _“Answer me!”_

Fuck, the Alpha tone. Peter only got this way when he was feeling all uber-Alpha. Predatory. Possessive. “Yes—God yes!” he moaned like a slut.

_Yes, yes, yes. I totally missed this. I totally missed you._

“And what’s with the pulling? It’s not a leash!”

“Of course it’s a leash,” Peter growled, “but it’s not a cage.”

_Ohfuckohfuckohfuck._

For some inexplicable reason, that made Stiles explode. He lurched into orgasm without the usual build-up, like he’d been strolling happily along on wanna-cum-island, only to find himself hurtling over a hidden precipice, screaming Peter’s name the whole way down. (Hopefully loud enough to wake that asshat Adam Levine up).

Once he landed, he felt totally wrecked, languid, dizzy. Above him, Peter had his teeth on his neck and was snarling and growling as he pounded Stiles into tomorrow--or at least the chaise cushion. Some really masochistic part of him kinda wished Peter would lose control and knot him, despite what it would do to his knees and hips to be stuck in that position for an hour.

But he knew Peter would never be careless with him, with his omega, even in the _throes of passion_. And if Stiles suggested it, his Alpha would get all offended and probably spank his ass—like really hard.

There would be knotting later, however. Stiles had _decided_.

None now, however. Instead Peter pulled out at the last second, shooting his load all over Stiles’ back, and then smearing the jizz everywhere to restore his Alpha scent. Which was pretty sexy.

A few minutes—seconds?—later, Peter was wrapping him up in one of the oversized towels and deadlifting him from the ground because he was such a mighty Alpha.

Stiles’ Alpha.

Who was smiling triumphantly. Because he was a smug Alpha bastard.

“You played me,” Stiles whined sleepily, fingering the chain.

“Yes.” Peter smiled wolfishly.

“I could get it removed. You can’t make me keep it on,” he warned.

“About that….”

“What? You can’t make me!”

“Of course not, angel. I’d never _force_ you. But I warned you that only the jeweler can remove it.”

“So?”

“Well, the jeweler is in Dusseldorf.”

“Like in Germany?”

“I wanted the best for my precious omega,” Peter said, all innocence.

“Oh my god. I fucking hate you!” Stiles shouted.

Peter kissed him—warmly, thoroughly, the kind of Alpha kiss that melted his brain and turned him into pathetic omega goo.

“I know, sweetheart. I hate you too.”

Asshole. Out past the terrace, the amber blur of Los Angeles had taken on a distinct pink hue.

Sunrise. A New Day. The world was all before them or some shit.

Oh well. Sleep now. Definitely knotting later.


End file.
